Page 27 of His Tempting Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #4)

CHAPTER 27

I t was plain that Frances was thrilled at their arrival.

“We never have guests,” she kept saying, skipping gleefully around the room. “Never! Well, that is, sometimes friends of Mama’s come and visit, but they never want to see me .”

She rambled on about something or another in an endearing, artless way. Emily watched the girl bounce around and found herself smiling.

“She is your niece ?” she whispered in Cassian’s ear, for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “I simply cannot believe it.”

They were seated in the drawing room at Margaret’s home. It was a warm, welcoming space, littered with Frances’s accomplishments: clever books and novels all mixed in together, a globe, a pianoforte, a dusty harp in the corner, watercolors and oil paintings framed on the walls, and so on.

Margaret had snatched up a glass of wine and reclined on a chaise lounge, watching her daughter chatter. There was a faint, adoring smile on her face.

“Yes, Frances is certainly Matthew’s child,” Cassian responded in a low murmur. “She was sired before Margaret married the baron. My father forced her to—she was only a lowly opera singer, and she truly believed that Matthew would be better off without her. Only, he decided that he would rather not live without her at all. I don’t believe he ever knew he was going to have a child.”

A lump formed in Emily’s throat. “I’m sorry, Cassian.”

He shook his head. “Nothing to be done about it now. I wish to be involved in Frances’s life, as she is my brother’s child, but of course, our connection cannot be known. It is a huge secret, Emily—you must know that.”

She nodded. “I know. Frances would be ruined.”

“Beyond repair, yes. I intend to settle a sum on her both for a dowry and to fund her coming out, and some of the Baron’s money will be hers. She knows who she is and why it must be kept a secret. You see,” he added, a little triumphantly, “that is why there was never anything between Margaret and I, and never could be—she is more or less my sister-in-law.”

Emily flushed. “Well, you can’t blame me for assuming.”

“No, I suppose not. A great deal was made of my friendship with her. People always like to assume the worst.”

“What are you whispering about over there?” Frances called, standing by the pianoforte. “Before supper is served, would anybody like to dance? I have a new dance I would like to practice, and I would like to dance with somebody other than Mama. Not that you aren’t a perfect partner, Mama, but Uncle is tall enough to be a proper partner, you know.”

“You could play, darling,” Margaret suggested, “and Emily and Cassian could dance. They did not dance on their wedding day, after all.”

Frances let out a shocked gasp. “Not once ? Oh, Uncle! How awful of you! Well then, you must dance with Aunt Emily now.”

Oh, but it felt strange to be called Aunt Emily .

I had better get used to it, as my sisters are producing children at a remarkable rate.

Aloud, Emily said, “Frances, I think you are the one who wants to dance. Why don’t you dance with your uncle?”

Frances wavered, clearly longing to dance.

Was I ever like that? Full of life and excitement, chirpy and twitchy and longing to dance? Daphne certainly was.

“Oh, but are you sure, Auntie?” Frances asked doubtfully.

Emily smiled, moving over to the pianoforte and lowering herself onto the bench. “I’m sure. Now, I’m not a very skilled player, but I can play a jig, at least.”

Frances’s beautiful face lit up with a smile. “Oh, that’s excellent! Thank you ever so much.”

She darted across the room, snatching up Cassian’s hand and hauling him to his feet. He went willingly, laughing and fake-complaining.

Smiling to herself, Emily began to play. Her notes were halting, and occasionally, she played the wrong ones, but that didn’t seem to matter much. Frances spun around the room in her uncle’s arms, both of them laughing and stepping on each other’s feet, while Margaret put aside her wineglass and clapped out the time.

“Steady now, steady!” Cassian laughed, holding up an arm for Frances to spin underneath. “Mind your balance! You can’t step out like that, or else you’ll knock into the other dancers!”

“There are no other dancers, Uncle, or are you going mad?”

“Gracious, Margaret, I believe that finishing school only taught Miss Frances here how to sharpen her wit and talk back!”

Frances laughed. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Careful, now,” Emily called over the din of the music and their stamping feet, “here comes the fast part.”

“Oh, Lord,” Frances gasped. “This is the part where I always get my legs tangled up.”

The two of them spun faster and faster, their feet thumping, Margaret’s hands clapping, the music speeding up and up until Emily’s fingers ached, a blur over the keys. With a flourish, the song ended, and so did the dance.

The two partners were meant to step back from each other and offer genteel bows, but instead, Cassian snatched up Frances and threw her into the air. She shrieked with delight, and he caught her neatly, squeezing her tight.

“You are a wonderful dancer!” He laughed. “Better than your mama, even.”

“I heard that,” Margaret responded tartly, picking up her wine glass again. “But that was a very pretty dance, darling.”

Frances was set down on her feet, and she wobbled breathlessly over to the pianoforte.

“Well, Aunt Emily, what did you think?” she asked eagerly. “How was my dancing?”

Emily smiled up at the girl, a wave of affection warming her from the inside out. “You were beautiful , Frances. You’re an excellent dancer. Except for that part where you trod on Cassian’s toes. You’ll have to avoid that when you come out into Society.”

“Oh, I’m sure I shall manage it,” Frances responded, with the breathless confidence of youth. “Thank you ever so much for playing!”

She spun on her heel and hurried over to where her mother sat, talking to her eagerly.

As always, Emily found her gaze drawn to where Cassian stood, out of breath, his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.

What a wonderful father he would make.

The thought was so sudden and so strong that it made her shiver a little. He glanced up, feeling eyes on him, and met her gaze.

Heat of a different kind swept through Emily, and she swallowed hard, looking away. She found herself meeting Margaret’s eyes instead.

Margaret held her gaze for a moment, a faint line between her eyebrows.

Remember , she mouthed, the word coming across as clearly as if she were whispering it in Emily’s ear. Remember what I said.

He’ll never love me, Emily told herself, the good mood of the evening draining away all at once.

* * *

“It was rather a surprise visit, I know,” Cassian remarked, stretching out his legs on the seat opposite, “but Margaret is an excellent host. Supper was divine.”

“Yes, and Frances is such a sweet girl,” Emily responded a little flatly. “So full of life. I like her very much, and she adores you.”

It was dark inside the carriage. They rumbled on through the gloomy London streets towards home, moonlight reflecting in dirty puddles and painting the filthy roads silver.

It isn’t home, Emily thought, with a pang of regret. It’s not home yet, and I am not sure if it will ever be my home.

Almost at once, she could hear her mother’s voice in her head, amused and warning all at once.

“Don’t be defeatist, dear. You’re too clever for that.”

She sighed, leaning back against her seat. The gentle rocking would have lulled her to sleep if she wasn’t so wide awake, her mind racing as fast as it could.

“Frances sees you as a father figure, I think,” she found herself saying, before she could consider the wisdom of such words.

Cassian was quiet for a moment, his expression shadowed in the darkness of the carriage.

“I think so,” he agreed. “She never knew her real father, of course, and the baron died when she was very young. Even before, I don’t believe he concerned himself with her in the slightest.”

“Did the baron know about her… parentage?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps he did—she barely resembles him—but then he treated her as a daughter in his will. He was a miserly man, old and unkind, but perhaps he had real affection for Margaret. I like to think so, at least. I know she loved Matthew, and I do not like to think of her living a miserable, loveless life after that.”

Emily stayed silent. She had a feeling that Margaret’s life had been very hard indeed, miserable and loveless and all kinds of lonely.

“But you believe now that there is nothing between Margaret and I?”

She sucked in a breath. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”

“I’m glad.”

A long silence fell between them again, the only sound the rhythmic crunch and rumble of carriage wheels on the road, splashing through puddles and jolting over potholes, the horses’ harnesses jingling intermittently.

Once again, Emily found her gaze drawn to Cassian. He sat hunched over, his long legs stretched out before him, his face turned pensively towards the window. He was half shrouded in darkness, half painted in silvery moonlight that highlighted the planes and sharp edges of his features.

That familiar lump formed in Emily’s throat once more.

“Stop looking at me,” he muttered, his voice low. “I cannot give you what you want.”

Emily swallowed reflexively. She ought to look away, to laugh or to say something to change the subject. That was the sensible thing to do. Instead, she kept on looking at him, her mouth growing dry.

“And what is it that I want?”

He tore his gaze away from the window, turning towards her.

“You want my heart,” he said, enunciating every word. “You want my heart, but you cannot have it.”

She swallowed again, trying and failing to work moisture into her mouth. “Why not?”

Why not? Why not?! What a thing to say. Like a child complaining about not being given a second pudding.

He gave a tiny, tired smile. “I promised someone a long time ago that I would never give away my heart. I must keep that promise.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, I see.”

“I never minded that promise until… until now. But I swore to Matthew, and he’s not alive to release me from my oath. So, there it is.”

To her horror, Emily felt tears pricking her eyes. She turned away, staring at the landscape as it blurred past them. She said nothing, half afraid that she would cry if she did.

“Emily? Emily, please, look at me. Are you angry with me?”

Cassian slid across his seat until he was directly opposite her, his knees almost bracketing hers.

“I’m not angry,” Emily whispered. “I could hardly be angry with you for keeping a promise you made to your dead brother. It’s only that you seem hell-bent on throwing away your future to live in the past.”

He bristled, and she sensed at once that she’d struck a nerve.

“You don’t understand,” he responded dismissively, turning his head away. “I knew you would not.”

A flare of anger warmed Emily’s chest. She leaned forward, forcing him to look at her.

“And why should I not understand? Do you think me an empty-headed fool, Cassian? Do you think that I am simply too dense to understand what is, at its core, a remarkably simple concept?”

He snorted. “And what remarkably simple concept is this?”

The scorn in his words bit deep, but Emily persevered.

“As I said. You live in the past, while your future is entirely neglected,” she responded quietly. “It is a pity you cannot see it.”

He glared at her, eyes flashing.

“ I cannot see it? Me? My dear duchess, I did not marry you to change my life, but to help me maintain it. Now, I thought I was perfectly clear on the terms of this marriage and the parameters of what you are expected to do. If you cannot stay in line, then…”

“Stay in line?” she burst out. “I am not one of your footmen, for you to command as you will! As you said, I am your duchess , not a maid, you wretch. This – This is why you are so alone all of the time, because you treat the people who care for you as if they were servants.”

He flinched at that, then leaned forward, snarling. “Oh, and you care for me, do you, duchess?”

Heat rushed to her face, but Emily did not allow herself to pull back. Instead, she leaned further forward, coming almost nose to nose with him.

“I would care for you, if you let me.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “What a delightfully begrudging offer.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. This is your life, Cassian! Your future that you are sacrificing, your present that you are squandering! Why won’t you listen ? Why won’t you see ?”

Abruptly, he snatched up her hand, long fingers curling around her wrist. Emily gave a squeak of alarm, eyes widening. He did not squeeze hard, did not hurt in any way, but she knew without trying that she would not be able to easily pull back her hand.

“You say I don’t listen and don’t see,” he growled, “but I have eyes and ears that work as well as any man’s, and oftentimes they drive me mad.”

Emily froze, watching him with her breath trapped in her throat. Her heart hammered, blood thrumming through her veins. He watched her, eyes dark and shadowed, like a wolf eyeing an isolated deer. Slowly, slowly, he lifted her hand to his face, pressing it to his cheek and holding his hand over it.

“I can’t give you my heart, but I can give you this,” he murmured.

His voice was so low that she almost did not hear him above the noise of the carriage. It was a breath, a prayer almost.

“G-Give me what?” she whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed her softly, only on the mouth. Then, he pulled back as if to gauge her reaction.

Emily stared at him, trying in vain to decipher the flicker behind his eyes. When she could not make out anything, she wound her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, kissing him hungrily.

He responded, his tongue pressing between her lips and dancing over her teeth. He tasted of wine, a sour-sweet taste that went straight to the pit of her stomach. Desire and longing—two very different feelings, Emily had discovered—mingled in her gut, the familiar ache between her thighs pulsing eagerly.

Cassian tore himself away, tilting his head to press a kiss to the side of her neck. She felt a prick of teeth there, nothing to break the skin or to truly hurt, but enough to send a wave of bittersweet pain through her. He smoothed his tongue over the mark before pressing his lips to it.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he purred, his breath hot and moist against her neck.

“Yes,” Emily whispered. “Yes, please. And I… I want to touch you. It’s only fair.”

She felt his breath stutter against her.

“Very well,” he answered, after a long pause.

There was a rustling, and warm fingers curled around her knee, sliding higher in an almost business-like fashion.

Cassian knelt on the floor between the carriage seats, down on one knee—as if he were proposing, Emily thought a trifle hysterically—and moved his long, clever fingers to the place between her thighs. She threw back her head, which thunked against the back of the carriage seat. Not that she cared. He seemed urgent, almost desperate, sliding and pressing in a stuttering, eager rhythm.

He kissed her again and again on the neck, going back to the small mark he’d left before to run his tongue over his. He kissed her on the chin, cheek, forehead, skimming over her lips, while his hand kept moving faster and faster. Emily felt as though she were floating, pleasure building up even more intensely than before.

It’s him . He is the one who makes me feel this way.

Oh, heavens. I’m in love with him, aren’t I?

Her climax crashed upon her just as that realization dawned on her. She cried out, her fingernails digging into the back of his neck. Cassian gave a low growl, deep in his throat, leaning forward to press his lips to her throat one more time.

Minutes could have gone by, or hours. Perhaps it was simply seconds. At last, Cassian slid his arm out from under her skirts and sat back.

Emily straightened up a little, still dazed and breathless. “Now you,” she said, as firmly as she could manage. “It is your turn, Cassian.”

She dropped her gaze to the fork of his trousers and saw a worryingly large bulge there, not quite hidden by the folds of fabric.

At that moment, the carriage stopped.

Emily’s eyes widened, and she peered out the window. “We’re home,” she squeaked. “Already? I…”

Cassian slid across the carriage seat, reaching for the handle. “I am tired, Emily,” he murmured, not meeting her eyes.

“But I wanted?—”

“No,” he interrupted, a little sharply. The bulge in his trousers was still there, but he seemed to be ignoring it, pulling his coat down to hide it. “No, Emily. This has gone far enough.”

Then, he slipped out of the carriage and strode across the courtyard towards the house, leaving her sitting alone in the dark carriage, her heart slowly but surely breaking.